


Broken

by Avenging_is_My_Day_Job



Series: The Prodigal Son [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Supernatural, The Batman (Cartoon), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Curses, Dean Winchester is Jason Todd, Dean Winchester is Red Hood, Gen, Gratuitous italics, Secret Identity, Witches, crossover fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-10-25 08:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17721545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avenging_is_My_Day_Job/pseuds/Avenging_is_My_Day_Job
Summary: A hunt gone wrong in Gotham City splits the Winchester family up and the young Dean believing himself abandoned. After adopting an alias, his life takes several turns, some of which are undoubtedly good... But it never quite ends that way.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted anything here for a while, but have gotten some newfound inspiration for writing. This is an edited and continued version of the original, titled Left Behind.

He wasn't used to being in the city, that much was for sure.

Hunts in smaller towns were preferable, or out in the countryside. There were a lot of upsides to having more room for the job. But in cities like this, discretion was near impossible. Granted, some hunters saw it the other way around, but John would never understand it. He had plenty of reasons to steer clear of these places, and he berated himself for setting aside those -entirely rational- preferences in order to complete the job.

Could have left it to another hunter. Could have called for backup... But here he was, utterly alone in this shit hole, wondering where the hell he went wrong in his investigation. He had ended up in some hovel on a bad side of town, weaponless and dumped by the witch he'd been after.

* * *

_After weeks of tracking leads, trying to find a pattern, he'd ended up here. Well, he wasn't sure how he ended up here particularly, but...in Gotham city. Or outside of it, really. How he ended up here, well, he'd let his target get the best of him. Upon arriving in the city, and actually getting an idea of what the hunt would entail, he'd discovered that the one witch he'd been tracking was actually part of a small coven. A handful of 'accidents' starting on the east coast and increasing in number as they moved north towards New York. Once he was in the city, and realized what he was really up against, it hadn't taken long to find who he was looking for._

_And it didn't take long for them to find him._

_At least he got the other two before the whole thing went south. Two less to worry about, two less to throw him off. The third was the one that slipped away, and chasing after her was a mistake. He realized that now, finally managing to drag his eyes open. He had a splitting headache, which he was sure started whenever he'd been hit over the head. A cursory scan of the room revealed nothing concerning or extraordinary. If anything, it was either an abandoned house or apartment building, the latter being most likely, given what little bit he could hear from outside._

_There was just enough light to make out how bare the room was, which left nothing to conceal his captor, if she was even there. There was the rest of the building to consider, so after taking those few moments to gather his bearings, he pulled himself to his feet. The floor creaked under his boots, loudly, and he winced before reaching for his gun. Then any of the knives he carried._

_His hands fell to his sides, empty, so he scanned the room for anything he could use instead. Something sharp or blunt. His key to the car wouldn't work unless it was an absolute emergency, otherwise he'd risk delaying the only means they had of travel. He pushed through the rotted door into the rest of the main floor to keep searching._

* * *

He hadn't come this far just to give up or lose, but here he was, empty handed and nothing to show for the weeks of tracking and research. It would probably take months to find this witch again, given the amount of time it took to find her in the first place. Now that she knew he was being hunted, she'd bolt.

Or she could come after John. If she'd gone through the trouble of hauling him around after knocking him out, she probably had a reason.

Shit!

With a string of curses, he slammed the car door after getting in, firing up the engine to get back to the motel as fast as possible. If she was there, or even planning on going there, he wasn't equipped to fight her off. He wouldn't put his family at risk that way. He could come back later, regroup somewhere and come up with a new strategy. But get somewhere safe first.

* * *

_John cleared the building as meticulously as possible, and after checking over himself to be safe, made his way back downstairs. With no bite marks or hex bags to speak of, and only his pride and weapons missing, he figured he could pass this along to another hunter and get his sons the hell out of dodge._

_He managed to get the old front door to budge open with a single, hard kick, and he was quick to leave the place behind to gather his bearings._

_Gotham was a mysterious and unfamiliar place as any given his line of work, but John wasn't going to be discouraged and possibly the most vital part of the job. There was no telling why the witch had grabbed him and dumped him off somewhere without hurting him - or killing him - and at this exact moment, his focus had to be on his children._

_He walked a few blocks, keeping his collar turned up and his head down, avoiding the gazes of passersby while he tried to locate something that he'd recognize, and just when the frustration started to overpower just about everything else, he spotted the one thing that would work the best. Parked, unharmed, around the corner of a crumbling brownstone was the impala. He didn't even remember driving it here, but he figured most of the day was missing from his immediate recollection._

_John returned to the motel in far less time than it legally should have taken, but the legality of his line of work was the absolute last thing on his mind right now._

* * *


	2. Chapter 1

Late afternoon didn't bring any sort of peace to the city, at all, really. The streets were always crowded with commuters rushing home from work and school, running their errands and just generally making any trip a pain in the ass.

When Dean finally made it back to the motel, he wasn't shocked that the impala wasn't among the many vehicles in the lot. He knew that his father was likely still out, either on the hunt or interviewing victims and witnesses. He wasn't unused to this, and it didn't bother him. Least... Not anymore. He would have been lying if he said that he didn't hope John was back by now.

But coming back to the motel and finding the room empty?

He panicked. He'd searched every square inch of the room for any clue, and indication of why they'd be gone. Whatever his father had been hunting must have taken them. There was absolutely nothing. The beds were still unmade from the night before, and his things were still in the closet, but that was it. Taking a deep breath, steeling himself as much as a ten year old could, Dean then left the room and went to the front office.

"They left, kid," the desk clerk said to him, giving him an uninterested look from behind the counter.

"Why?" Dean demanded, angrily. "Did he say anything?"

"Just that they had to go a few days early. Why, you with them?"

Dean huffed, shoving through the door back out to the sidewalk. Tears pricked at his eyes as he walked back to the room. The door was still unlocked from when he'd run out earlier and he looked down, seeing the unbroken salt line in the threshold. It just...it didn't make any sense. All the lines were still intact and...

He lifted the edge of the welcome mat - so were demon traps.

The door hung open, letting the uncomfortably humid summer breeze drift inside. Shoes dragged across the dingy carpet, and he pulled his duffel out of the closet, heaving it up onto the bed to assess the contents. Sifting through it, he was slightly relieved to find that his emergency cash was still there. Seeing as he'd been left here, it probably wouldn't last him long. A hundred dollars or so, meant for a week's worth of groceries in the event they ran short. For food and shelter by himself, he'd be surprised if it lasted more than a few days. He had some salt and holy water too, but again, it wouldn't do much.

He pushed the bag aside and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching the parking lot through the open door. Obviously it was a mistake... He would wait there for them to come back and get him. Realize that he wasn't there. He imagined that John had been in such a hurry to get them out of the city, that he completely missed not taking Dean too. Something terrible must have happened for him to have taken Sammy and left in such a rush...

He was smart, though. Too smart for his own good, some of his teachers had said. The longer he waited, the longer he watched the doorway, the worse the feeling became. The more rational side of him - the side that manifested after the fire and had served him well in this tumultuous life - that side knew... The evidence pointed to the obvious. He'd been left behind and there was no one coming back.

When the sun finally dipped below the skyline, and the yellow streetlights flickered on, he finally gave in. He pocketed the cash, draped the strap of the bag over his shoulder, and left the room behind. He ducked into the shadows of the buildings, keeping out of sight of passersby, deciding to delve further into the city. He could survive there, as opposed to wandering the smaller towns nearby, or trying to go somewhere else.

He'd survive here as long as he had to.

* * *

_Surviving_ in Gotham meant a lot of things, and many of them Dean hadn't been prepared for. When the money had run out, so did the shelter and food. Without any means of income, he resorted to stealing. Petty theft, really, and it didn't yield much more than enough to keep him from dying.

It doesn't really take long to get spotted though, and before he knew it he'd been swept off the streets like a common pound dog and dumped in a dingy youth home while the authorities investigated. Even as young as he was he questioned their competence. 

After a few weeks, he was dragged out of the shelter and taken to an office building that smelled like old linoleum and moth balls. He gave a fake name when he'd been picked up at first, because as utterly betrayed as he felt, he wanted to protect his father from the inevitable repercussions. Dean must not be a very good liar, because they seemed to question his entirely fabricated story from the very beginning. 

Not like they could prove it.

"What's your name?"

Dean shifted nervously, carefully schooling his features as he had learned to do - and it had probably saved his hide several times now - and looked up at the social worker.

"... It's Jason," he said, quietly. She tapped her pen on the table, peering over the top edge of her glasses at him.

"Do you have a last name, Jason?"

He was silent once again, laying one arm in front of him on the tabletop. He rested his chin in the crook of his arm and sighed. "...Todd."

The social worker nodded, giving him a kind smile that made him want to roll his eyes. This was the exact scenario he'd hoped he'd never be in, but here he was.

"Alright, Jason. You can go ahead and wait outside," she said, gesturing for him to go.

He took the cue without question and slid down from the chair, hurrying out of the office. He contemplated bolting, just making a break for it and hoping that no one between him and the entrance actually caught him... But that rational side won over again. He was in a building filled with people, and there would no doubt be gratuitous obstacles he'd encounter. He definitely wouldn't make it far. He didn't really want to know where they'd place him if he gave them a hard time. So over to the bench he trudged, getting as comfortable as he could while he waited.

He'd already had that conversation several times before, and he'd stuck by his story. His name was Jason Todd - not Dean Winchester - and he'd lived in Gotham his whole life. Where were his parents? He didn't know. They'd ditched a long time ago and he'd been on his own, scavenging Crime Alley for pocket change and scraps to sell. He thought he was convincing enough. The story never changed, and he knew exactly how to manipulate an audience. Again, they were doubtful, as anyone listening to a child telling this story would be. But what could they do about it? Torture it out of them?

One thing Dean - no, Jason - understood plainly, was that he could expect that from the monsters that his father hunted. But these were humans. Dumb, lumbering humans.

Soon after taking his seat outside the office, one of the officers from one of the city's precincts arrived, going inside with a handful of papers and a grim look on his face. As far as Jason knew, he wasn't in any databases. From what he'd seen on TV, they either needed your DNA, fingerprints, or your real name. Without any of that, they only had his word, so what were they going to do?

When the officer returned a few minutes later, his expression hadn't changed much, but he gave Dean a pitying look. "Alright son, we got a placement for you."

"Already?" He asked, bored.

"Better than where they wanted to place you. You'll be fine, son."

He scrunched up his face in disgust, hearing this stranger call him that. It didn't sound right coming from anyone other than John, maybe Uncle Bobby. And knowing he probably wouldn't see either of them ever again made this nasty feeling bubble up inside his chest. He swallowed it down and begrudgingly nodded, sliding off the bench to follow the officer down the corridor towards the elevator.

* * *

Jason counted about five times he could have slipped away unnoticed, or at least made a break for it with little resistance. The officer escorting him was keeping a majority of his focus elsewhere, far as he could tell, and it would have just been so easy. He only counted one instance where the thought crossed his minds that other kids his age probably didn't see life from a hunter's perspective like he did. Just once.

First they returned to the shelter, where he was made to collect what was left of his already meager belongings. He still had the bag, but it was weather beaten and in worse than terrible shape. He had a few sets of clothes that he kept neatly and tightly packed at the bottom of the bag, the pocket knife he had managed to sneak past the adults in charge, a few odd trinkets, and some photos.

He kept the bag under his feet in the backseat of the police cruiser, insisting that it stay with him for the duration of the trip, and didn't take his eyes off of it the whole time. Jason had been told plenty of stories by the other kids about foster families taking their old possessions and tossing them out, like that part of their pasts didn't exist. At the shelter, they had lockers, but out here, it was fair game. But he'd learned a lot over the summer, and he wasn't going to let that happen.

He spared looks out of the window a few times, and his curiosity heightened with every glance. The old, poorly kept side of Gotham he'd been living in was fading into the distance, and glass faced office buildings and department stores took their place. Before long, more traffic had joined the trek across the city and Jason just couldn't help himself. His stubbornness faded along with his moping, and he sat up a little to get a better look.

They were passing through one of the city's business districts now. 

He plopped back down on the seat and looked forward, expression twisting into a glare when he noticed the officer glancing back at him in the rearview mirror.

"Still got a ways to go," the officer said, "So get comfy."

Jason grumbled and crossed his arms, but leaned to the side so he could keep watching through the window. 

It got cloudy not long later, and with the sun starting to dip below the skyline, it got dark fast. He started to doze, stirring whenever the car hit a bump in the road but otherwise forgoing awareness long enough to miss the rest of the trip. Bleary and still unhappy, he hobbled behind the cop when the car stopped and they finally got out. He took a moment to stretch, which did little to change how exhausted he suddenly was, and then stepped around the back of the car.

When he saw where they were, he almost scoffed. 

There was no way this was it. Had to be the wrong address, right? Shelter kids didn't end up in nice places like this, only babies did. No rich family wanted problem kids like him. 

But the officer started walking like it was the exact place they were supposed to be. Jason almost tripped over the front steps when he was walking because he couldn't help but look up and gape at the looming mansion. It was straight out of an episode of Scooby Doo, minus the fake ghosts and occasional moat.

The officer grasped his shoulder, leery and very much aware of the boy's past escape attempts, and rang the doorbell twice. There were static voices chiming over his radio, and he was getting antsy to leave in case a call came through nearby. He was shifting on his feet like he needed to be anywhere but there.

One of the ornate and oversized doors made an audible knocking sound when the locks turned, and in the next moment it opened into a grande foyer that was occupied solely by a balding man in a suit.

"Welcome home, Master Jason," the man greeted them, then invited him inside. Jason looked over his shoulder at the already retreating form of the police officer, then trudged into the house behind... What did he say his name was?

"My name is Alfred Pennyworth, I serve the household and will assist you in settling in this evening."

Jason nodded along, but kept his head down. If the butler was the only one here, then he had to wonder if he was just a charity case for whoever actually owned the house. 

"Young man, might you introduce yourself?"

Startled from his thoughts, but just a bit, Jason looked up at Alfred. Once he'd fully processed the statement, he complied. "Name's Jason. Todd. Jason Todd."

He looked away, taking in the room and all it's glory. It was impossibly spotless and the contents of that singular space alone probably cost more than he'd ever make in his life. Granted, he was just a little kid, but still.

"Would you like to see your room, or would you rather I -"

"Room. Please," he tacked on the please almost as an afterthought. No reason not to be polite. Not yet anyway.

Alfred complied with a warm smile, leading him across the foyer to the staircase. They started climbing, and suddenly the bag on Jason's shoulder felt like it was a hundred pounds heavier. He adjusted the strap and kept on, stopping only when the butler did.

The walls of the hallway were decorated with a mixture of art that was probably very tasteful, despite his lack of familiarity, and several doors lined each side. The one Alfred chose seemed completely random to him, but when he stood in the threshold, made perfect sense.

Jason shrugged away from the hand that had gently clasped his shoulder, stepping further into the room that was now supposed to be his. It was nicer than anything he could really remember having for himself, barring his room as a small child. Certainly cleaner than anything he'd had in several months. And still it wasn't quite right.

Standing there, everything he'd felt come rushing at him at the motel hit him once again. Betrayal, heartbreak... loss. Having something so permanent to call his own was wrong. It felt wrong and it looked wrong. Roadside motel rooms with old mattresses, scratchy linens and questionable ceiling stains were what he was used to. What he missed.

Somehow, still, this room actually wasn't all that wrong. It lacked the sentiment he wanted to cling to, but it was his. His with the promise that it was always his. That meant, from now on, no hunting. No days-long road trips. No crappy mattresses and questionable ceiling stains. He had a stable home now, and really, that's all he ever really wanted before.

He could tell someone had tried to make it more appealing for a kid, though the attempt had fallen flat. There were splashes of colour in the decor, a little mismatched compared to the room itself. The walls were devoid of art or pictures, as opposed collection he'd seen on the way through the manor.

"I'll give you time to settle in, then,"

"Thank you," he replied, solemnly, turning to face the butler. "For this."

"Not at all, Master Jason," Alfred nodded, then disappeared down the hallway.

Alone now, Jason carried his bag across the room to unpack. 

He put the clothes put away first, followed by putting the trinkets carefully on top of the dresser, and there wasn't much else to be done. Thankfully, the room wasn't all that bare without his touch. A bookshelf adorned one wall, lined with a variety of books and encyclopedias, and a desk occupied the otherwise empty space on the other side of the room.

He survived on his own in Gotham, but maybe he could live here. Maybe this was a good thing.

* * *

The first night... well, first several nights were nerve wracking and restless. In part because this was so new, and he'd spent so many months jumping awake at every sound -self preservation was vital - and because he'd spent his entire life knowing that there was always something lurking in the shadows.

He had yet to see hide nor hair of his new guardian, and that only furthered the suspicion that he was just a charity case. A means for publicity. He wondered how much people knew about this arrangement. Surely this kind of thing would have been publicized? He wondered...if it had, would John have heard about it? Wouldn't he come?

And if John was really well and truly done with him, wouldn't Bobby at least come? He knew the two butted heads more often then not, but the older hunter was family and cared about him and Sammy like they were his own kids.

The butler...Mr. Pennyworth... he was okay. Kind but aloof, and aside from generally being a mother hen, he left Jason to himself during the day. Wayne was almost never there, and for that, Jason couldn't much care. He made a few appearances in the mornings and afternoons, but he was gone most of the day on business, and always retired not long after coming home in the afternoons.

It only took a few days for him to realize that the relative peace he'd been enjoying since arriving here was courtesy of the holiday break. Summer was long over, and school was only out for a few more days before school was back in session and he had the unfortunate luck of having to deal with people.

As he concluded a long time ago, teachers were complete morons. Other kids even moreso, but he had always made an effort to get good grades and keep out of too much trouble. They didn't need nosy people breathing down their necks and asking questions. To be honest, he actually enjoyed school, but had become desensitized to having to switch schools every few weeks or months. But after being on his own for so many months, he wasn't sure he could socialize all that well anymore. He'd probably stick out like a sore thumb, and he did not want that kind of attention when he wasn't going to leave this place behind any time soon.

"Are you trying to murder the television?"

Jason startled, twisting around on the sofa to find the source of the voice. He hadn't realized how much time had passed since he'd sat down to watch TV, but a side glance through the windows confirmed a significant change in the sun's position. He looked back towards the screen and gave it an indignant look, seeing that whatever he'd sat down to watch was long over and the device had just been droning on in the background while he contemplated.

"You must be Jason," the young man said, coming further into the room with an amused look. "I'm Dick Grayson."

Jason's face scrunched up, a mixture of amusement and shock. "Your name's...Dick?"

Dick frowned slightly, but shrugged. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Nah, just weird, that's all."

"You're one to talk," Dick replied, "Whatever the TV did to piss you off... I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

"No offence, man, but who the hell are you?"

"Language," The young man chimed, with a grin. "I'm the other son. Like your older brother. I'm sure we'll get along great."

"Sure. What do you want?"

"To meet my little brother, that's all," Dick said, ruffling his hair. Jason swatted his hands away, huffing angrily. He smoothed his hair down as best he could, glaring at his so called 'brother'.

"I guess I'll leave you to brood in peace," Dick started towards the door. "I think you'll fit in here perfectly."

Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

* * *


	3. Chapter 2

"I'm telling you, Singer, I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

John Winchester took a single, sizable step backwards, putting a good few feet between himself and the older hunter. Blood dripped from his nose, and he swiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt, ignoring the red stain as he kept a wary eye on the other.

"How the hell do you forget your own son!" Bobby snapped, glaring at John.

"You've lost your mind, old man," John pushed past him to retrieve Sam from inside the house. Bobby grabbed his collar, and with a hard tug, he dragged John backwards and gave him a single, solid punch to the jaw. The younger hunter stumbled to the ground, the impact knocking the breath out of him.

"Why were you even in Gotham city?" Bobby looked _beyond_ furious. His face was turning red and his voice was just getting louder with every word. Like John was supposed to make sense of this rambling. "Just to abandon Dean at the right moment? Were you plannin' on ditching Sam too?"

_Gotham_? That hunt was over a year ago. He remembered it, and it wasn't fondly. 

"I was hunting a witch!" John barked back, "For three months. I tracked her to Gotham."

The murderous expression on Bobby's face faded, though John didn't relax in the slightest. He never let his guard down. "Let me guess, you let her get _away_?"

"You know I don't _let_ monsters get away, Singer. That bitch got the drop on me and I had to get Sam out before she pulled something..."

"Find any hex bags before you high tailed it outta the city? Or did you even bother to check?"

John's eyes widened, and he looked away. Really, that was all the answer Bobby needed. He took out his pocket knife and marched across the yard to the impala, yanking open one of the doors to rifle through all the nooks and crevices inside the car. Under the seats, between the door panels and under the floor mats. There was some miscellaneous garbage, a book or two. All of it got thrown out onto the dirt.

Everything that was in the way was discarded while Bobby rummaged around, running a hand under the seats, before moving to the trunk, and the compartment beneath the false bottom. When that didn't yield any results, he moved back to the interior of the car and stabbed one of the seats, dragging the blade just far enough to reach a hand down under the upholstery. John shook off the shock from moments before, biting back the questions so he could follow suit and start searching the car. Had there been a hex bag in his own belongings, or Sam's he would have found it by now. Where else could it be?

After a moment of feeling around, he dropped down to the dirt on his knees, turning to face the outside of the car.

Bobby paused when John's efforts ceased, and he came around to that side of the car to see what prompted it. Clutched in John's hand, in a white-knuckled grip, was a small cloth bag tied off with string. The culprit behind his apparent memory loss. His and Sam's.

"Toss it," The older hunter said, tone leaving no room for argument. John complied, throwing the hex bag a few feet away into the dirt while Bobby retrieved a box of matches.

"God...what have I done? Fucking hell,"

"You can wallow after you find that boy. You better hope that you find him," Bobby said, crouching down to be eye level with the other hunter. "You leave Sam with me, or with Jim or Missouri, and you go back to Gotham City to find your son. Find that boy or you answer to me."

By god, he was going to do that no matter what it took. John didn't need Bobby's thinly veiled threats, or even the glaringly obvious ones. 

John Winchester didn't need to be told twice. Hell, he didn't need to be told at all, but if Bobby yelling at him was what got him on his feet then he wasn't going to argue. So after unloading all of Sam's things from the car, he promised to be back as soon as he had Dean, and he was off.

The memories didn't necessarily come rushing back. No, they sort of settled right back in where they were supposed to be. The last year was tainted, every good thing that had happened so far, was suddenly weighed down by the guilt of what he'd done. Because if he'd been vigilant, if he'd done his job right, _none_ of this would have happened. Dean, his _son_ wouldn't be long gone.

Possibly dead.

He had to consider all the possibilities here. Perhaps the witch had taken the boy after planting the hex bag. Maybe... hopefully, Dean got away. He was doubtful that after this long that a homeless ten year old -eleven now, he realised- was going to go unnoticed. It probably wasn't all that unusual, but people around town would talk. He would have to start in the same neighborhood that the motel was in if he wanted a good trail to follow. He contemplated going after the witch first, tracking her down to whatever hovel she'd sequestered herself to and interrogating her. But if she didn't have Dean, it would just be a waste of time. The more time he spent going after the real suspect, the more distance would be put between him and family. The witch could wait.

John had to stop a few times along the way, to refuel or rest, but also to compose himself. He had betrayed his family, betrayed Mary. He'd never forgive himself for this, and he was certain that the boys wouldn't either. Dean had every right to hate him, and Sam for sure knew by now. They weren't particularly close already, but this was probably the nail in the coffin.

Actually arriving back in the city was an odd feeling, since he almost never hunted in the same city twice. There were a few exceptions, but someplace like this wasn't one of them. Discretion was important, but right now, it wasn't priority. So he started from the beginning, with the motel and the staff there. Of course no one could give him anything, and really, he was only hoping they could. It had been over a year, so how could they? Nearby residents didn't know anything, and asking the authorities would only put himself at risk. Put Sam at risk.

He was beginning to lose hope when an idea struck him. Leaving town to expand his search wouldn't do any good unless he explored every possible avenue, so he moved closer to the center of the city and got to work. There was no indication that Dean Winchester had stayed in that neighborhood any longer than John and Sam had, which meant he kept moving. Stayed under the radar, enough so that locals had nothing to offer. He learned well, and John felt a swell of pride. It dissipated almost as quickly though.

His son should have never been forced to use those lessons to survive on his own.

Going to the police station had to be a last resort, so his next stop would be the library. Most had archives for old newspapers, access to public records and the like. Checking those out would be the next best step to find anything he might need.

He poured over every archived paper that followed the first few months following his leaving Gotham. None of it yielded anything promising, other than a slight increase in arrests in part of the city known as 'Crime Alley', but otherwise... nothing.

John spent days between libraries, scouring public records on the computers and carefully sorting through paper documents in the archives, trying to find anything relevant to the hunt. There were no arrest records, no unidentified murder victims, no identified murder victims with his son's name or any of the aliases he'd used over the years. The only bodies found in that brief time period were either the witch's victims that he already knew about, or random citizens that had been irrelevant to the case. He was beyond relieved for that particular find, or lack thereof, but the further he got without finding any leads only deepened the pit in his stomach.

Bobby called once, and only once, to inform him that none of his contacts had seen hide nor hair of Dean Winchester, and the boy hadn't turned up anywhere they'd know to look.

John was almost ready to give up. It was a horrible thought, he realized, when this was his own fault. Dean wasn't dead, but unless that hex bag had shrouded his memory too, he probably believed that his own father hated him. That he didn't want him. John himself knew that feeling all too well, and it never left. Growing up and making his own family had certainly helped abate the feeling of abandonment after Henry disappeared, but he couldn't convince himself it was ever really gone. That Dean would ever really forget and move on.

He knew that whenever he found his son - when not if - the damage would already be done. His efforts to find him, and his regret for leaving him behind, it would mean nothing.

But if he could spare Dean even another day of being alone, it was worth it.

Another day ended with no reliable leads, John packed up what little information he'd gathered about the city's goings-on during those three months and he went back to his motel. He stacked everything on the desk by the window and made a quick call to check on Sam, then sat down on the edge of the bed to sort through the papers.

The television droned on in the background, volume turned down so that it was just loud enough to mask the road noise outside. He didn't typically watch tv, but without the boys there to make noise the room felt like a dungeon. Even when it was just him and Sam it was still enough to keep him from going cabin-crazy.

John skimmed through everything a few times, hoping there was something he had missed before finally giving up and tossing the useless documents in the bin. Whatever telenova had been on earlier was over now, and there was a news anchor prattling off crime statistics for the city. Boasting an All time low in two years!!! before a clip started playing from some ritzy party.

The camera panned around the crowd, taking in all of the expensive suits and sequinned dresses that filled the ballroom, before switching over to the 'host' of the party.

_CEO of Wayne Industries, Bruce Wayne hosted the charity gala yesterday evening, and his two adoptive sons were in attendance as well. In a rare occurrence, all three were present longer than the first hour of the event!_

John had to look twice, but he swore, just for a second, that he saw Dean's face in that crowd. Smiling and laughing. Happy.

Alive.

The report only lasted a few more seconds, but the hunter was lost in thought by the time it ended. He didn't even pay attention to the rest of the program. He wrote down what little detail had been given about the event, and he was out the door again. He had work to do.

* * *

Jason had come a long way in the time he'd spent in Gotham. While a considerable portion of that time had been spent wondering if any of this new life was worth it, he had slowly come to accept it. To embrace the change. Aside from a roof and a warm bed, it came with its perks. That was undeniable.

Not long after the year mark, there was a night that he was perched on the edge of a high rise, watching people milling about the streets below when Bruce sent him to check out a disturbance nearby. Nothing particularly dangerous that he couldn't handle on his own, so he set off.

Running across rooftops and clearing narrow alleys in (carefully) timed jumps was exhilarating, and it always got his blood pumping before confrontations. If he was on his own, this is how he moved. No batmobile, no motorcycle -unless it wasn't a reasonable commute on foot, in which case he always 'borrowed' the bike from Dick- he always ran. This city felt like it was bigger than the earth itself. So much bigger than the confines of a car, or tiny, podunk towns and roadside roach motels. When he was on a patrol, he felt like he could run for days and never see the edge of the city. 

This time though, he stopped short.

He spotted the store he was supposed to check out a few yards away, and so far there was nothing happening. He was here based on a tip, and he knew it might not have merit, but it was worth checking out anyway if it meant something to do. 

Jason stayed behind the ledge of the rooftop directly opposite of the store, scanning the immediate area for anything out of place. When he saw it. Parked across the street was a very familiar classic car. He stared at it for a moment before shouts down below tore him from his stupor and descended the building's fire escape to intercept the now fleeing robber.

As he chased after the suspect, he tried convincing himself that that car could belong to anyone that liked classics. It wasn't a rare model.

He turned his attention back to the store, staring at the windows and the light spilling out onto the sidewalk. There were a few people hanging outside by the newspaper dispensers, and when the wind blew, it carried the faint stench of cigarette smoke with it. That coupled with the humid air made for a very unpleasant perch, but it was no matter. His focus kept drifting away from the storefront and back to that damned black impala.

Something inside him ached when he looked at that car, but that feeling was surreptitiously replaced with a surge of anger. There was no time recently to dwell on his past. No time to contemplate the circumstances. One day he was on the streets, selling stolen car parts to try and survive, and the next he was the ward of a billionaire and patrolling the city in brightly coloured body armor and a cape. But now he had a moment of quiet and relative peace. Enough to stare that car down and realize one thing. 

In all that time, his father never came back for him. He had very well been left here alone to fend for himself, with no consideration of his capability or safety. There was no sense in endlessly hoping for the love of a family that abandoned him. 

Movement a few meters away had him switching focus again, and he watched the door of the store swing open with the chime of a little brass bell. He couldn't get distracted in the field. The risks were too high.

Jason watched as none other than John Winchester walked out of that store, none the wiser to the boy sitting on the rooftop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you guys think? Should he come face to face with John, or should he pass up this opportunity?


	4. Chapter 3

In his lifetime, Jason Todd had never hesitated. Not once.

As a kid, he had learned that hesitation could easily spell out death, dismemberment, or even worse, getting someone hurt because of his own fear. Hesitating meant losing a lead. It meant failing on a job. It meant the bad guy got away.

Hesitation meant losing opportunities that might never come to pass again.

And yet, Jason remained hunched over in the shadows on that rooftop, watching the street below. Hardly focused. Heart pounding. It was warm outside again, had been for weeks, but in that exact moment Jason felt cold. One soft breeze and he started shaking too. Like a little kid learning that the bogeyman was real for the first time. Among a host of other things.

Stop. _Stop it_!

Thought after thought invaded his mind, barraging his focus and freezing him where he was perched. He grasped the ledge and leaned forward, squinting his eyes and fixing his gaze firmly on the figure below, moving slowly from the door of the shop.

" _False alarm_."

What?

"What?"

" _False alarm. The city's quiet tonight, go home. I'll finish patrol_."

Jason didn't move, instead, keeping his eyes on Winchester. There really wasn't anything stopping him from going down there. Nothing holding him back but his own treacherous _fear_. Nothing good ever came from hesitation, and somehow that lesson never seemed to fully stick. Because here he was, indecisive and scared, scared of his own father for god's sake.

He could go home, couldn't he?

Maybe give Winchester a piece of his mind.

Or just… hurt him. Hurt him as much as he'd been hurt.

Any way he went about it, he'd compromise his identity. Risk everything he'd accomplished and come into in the last few months. Maybe it wasn't fear. Not entirely. Stubbornness. Spite. If the man even cared, Jason was content to let him wallow in guilt, however long it took. If he came back to Gotham to look for him, out of some selfish sense of regret, or to save face, and if he actually managed to find him, he'd find a kid that was happier now than he ever had been.

Damn it, he was happy in spite of what happened! It was spite. Unquestionably. He had survived, kept himself alive, and ended up with the greatest job ever. In spite of John Winchester. In spite of hunting. In spite of yellow eyes and whatever unnatural force had the gall to try and screw his life to hell. He was here now, and what he had was good.

He'd be damned to let it go.

He wouldn't risk another moment of his life or happiness for his father's mission.

So.

That was it then.

It wasn't over. It would never be. But even a loose grasp on piece of mind was better than none. The man below didn't even look concerned, like he was missing his kid, so why impede on the peace he so richly deserved.

Jason sighed, releasing his grip on the ledge, and let his body relax. He was a long way from being over it, but this was a first step.

Below, oblivious, John Winchester stepped out into the street beside his car. With one hand resting on the door handle, he paused and turned, looking up at the edge of the rooftop where Jason was perched. Stone still. He blinked, and the costumed boy was gone, slinking unto the shadows once again.

Jason heard the engine roar to life, then fade away into the distance. After that, the only sound that reached the rooftop were distant sirens and car horns. 

" _Robin_."

He hadn't responded. Hadn't moved for too long. All of this couldn't have taken longer than a few minutes, he knew for certain.

"On my way."

He shook his head, bracing himself against the exterior wall of the stairwell. He just turned his back on everything he had been from aged four till now, and it felt… better than he thought. Freeing.

He'd take patrols and wearing tactical armor colored like a traffic light over salt and devils traps and werewolves any day, and that realization was the most solid thought he'd had on the subject since he walked out of that motel room.

Jason closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then made his way back to the cave. When he arrived, it was empty, but this time, that aloneness wouldn't last long. Bruce would be done shortly, and Alfred would probably be down soon, just to be sure neither of them were hurt. Jason didn't patrol every night, but that was the routine when he did.

He only made it halfway through changing out of his uniform before he collapsed. Laughter bubbled up to the surface, and tears stung his eyes, soaking into his mask before trailing down his cheeks.

He was too tired to care about what he looked like. No one was around to see! So he let himself feel, let himself laugh about the absurdity, grieve over what he left behind, and overall exhausted himself even more after a long night chasing dead ends.

And finally, finally, he rested. He managed to put his uniform away and change into sweats before sinking into the big chair at the computer. He drifted off into a heavy sleep while reading over the latest case file, and when he opened his eyes again, he was warm in his own bed, facing the window that overlooked the city skyline.

For once, he didn't contemplate the view. Instead, he rolled over and fell asleep again.

* * *

Jason didn't keep track of the impala, and after that patrol, he didn't see it again. Without that weighing on his mind, with his conscience telling him to look at what's ahead, rather than what's behind, his job was easier. Everything improved. His grades, his skill, his focus.

Everyone noticed, but no one mentioned it. He might not be burdened by who he used to be, but his new life still sat on shaky ground, and he was still learning to walk.

With his newfound determination to just be a kid - albeit a really cool one, even if no one else could know that - came the understanding that this was really his home now. Home had never been a place before. Never had any roots to put down. No community.

John always said that home was family, and as much as Jason felt that the man was a liar now, it was at least true here in Gotham. But he didn't just have a family, he had a real home too. He'd been here longer now than any other motel or run down rental.

This was home. This was _his_ home.


	5. Chapter 4

When his eyes were closed, Jason Todd saw his mother.

Bloodied and burning, flames engulfing the room inch by inch, sparing nothing in their path. A shadow slipped across the orange-lit walls, and vanished into the darkness not yet tainted by the fire. He knew this one. He dreamed it plenty as a child. It had been some time since it occupied his thoughts though, and some things had faded over the years. Orange, yellow, and black still flooded his vision, and the shadow's vaguely human shape leered at the red stained corpse.

When he listened, the fire roared.

But nothing felt right.

He shivered, and cold seeped into his bones, unhindered, while the flames grew. The roar wasn't fire, it was _wind_.

Jason dragged his eyes open, locking his gaze on the dusty cement floor under his body. There was no fire. Only cold and wind beating against the walls of the warehouse. Every breath sent pain flooding through his chest, and the minuscule light source was splitting his head wide open. He blinked, trying to will away the pain.

It didn't work.

I'm fact, somehow, it made it _worse_.

With a groan, he shifted, trying to adjust his weight distribution so that he wasn't putting all of it on _clearly_ fractured ribs. He didn't have time to contemplate his situation, because it hit him with the same intensity that all the broken bones had as soon as he tried to move.

He followed a lead here. Across the world. A completely _bogus_ lead. And look at him now.

He had blacked out, but not for long. The purple clad maniac waiting with a crowbar wouldn't have been idle for too long with a lone victim unconscious on the ground.

Closing his eyes at all came from a momentary lapse in judgment, and it would cost him dearly. With every second that ticked by, his options were running out. This situation was turning dire, and another blow to his back only cemented that. If he didn't find a way out soon, he wouldn't find one at all.

Jason scanned the room, trying fruitlessly to kick the man's legs out from underneath him. Just to buy some time.

The next blow missed and struck the ground, echoing loudly through the warehouse.

He didn't wait for results, he took the moment and rolled to the side, aggravating every bruise and fracture in the process. He searched the room, focus darting from one pile of rubbish to the stacks of wooden crates. _Searching_.

No, no, _no_!

He'd had trouble in the past few years trying to adhere to that godforsaken _code_ , and growing up with the job made him realize that some people, human or not, just didn't deserve to exist. Joker was a prime example of that. Today might finally be the day he could be right.

If he could just break these goddamn binds and find a weapon -!

The flat metal bar cracked across his side, and he tumbled over onto the floor, coughing and gasping for breath. Blood spattered on the floor, and he collapsed, only to be struck again on his jaw.

"Wow, that looked like it _really_ hurt."

He was no fool. There was no worry. No humanity.  
Nothing holding Joker back.

Jason curled in on himself and tuned the senseless rambling, trying to protect himself from further injury while Joker reigned blow after blow, only stopping to take a breath. Shame how beating up a kid could knock the wind out of you.

When it finally stopped, he lay there, muttering under his breath, which only seemed to frustrate the clown even more. He couldn't breathe through the blood in his lungs and his throat.

Joker mimicked his gasps for breath, crouching down beside the boy wonder and lifting his head by his hair.

"A little louder, lambchop. I think you may have a collapsed lung. Always impedes the oratory."

Jason spit in his face, smirking triumphantly when crimson red marred the unnatural white of the man's face. The monologuing continued, but all Jason could offer in response was a flash of red teeth.

He knew better than to think that it was over with that, but his grip on consciousness was slipping away again. He closed his eyes and braced against every impact until he didn't have the strength to anymore, and then he listened.

He heard the door creak open, and the Joker's voice ringing over the sound of the harsh wind blowing through the comparatively small opening. Snow drifted in, past Joker, and scattered around the already cold room. The breeze pushed most into little piles, but he felt some stick to his face, chilling him.

As soon as the door closed, he was moving again. First he rolled backwards, pulling his arms under his body from behind so he could actually _use_ his hands, and then he was crawling across the cold floor. Blood smeared a trail behind him, but he was so _close_ , and it wasn't that far. Still, it took forever.

He made it to the door and used it to lean on while he dragged his knees beneath his body to lift himself up. The handcuffs on his wrist clinked softly against the metal, and he pulled as hard as he could on the handle. If he worked it hard enough, the handle itself might come loose from the door. Been a while since he's had to employ that particular method of lock 'picking', and never in the field, but there was a first for everything.

He gave one more good yank before sliding back down to the floor to breathe, and the silence that filled the room was piercing. Almost as much as the shrill beeping nestled among the crates to his left.

Slowly, he turned his head, green eyes wide with surprise and fear.

Nine seconds

Eight seconds

Seven

Six

Shock eased to acceptance. There was no escaping this. That window was small and he didn't take it when he had the chance.

He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes. He could see the fire again, only this time, _his_ body was among the flames. Battered and broken. At least it wasn't Dick. Or Bruce, or Alfred. They could manage, and they stood a better chance than him anyway.

He took one last deep breath, holding it as long as he could.

Three

Two

One

* * *

* * *

Years and years would pass unhindered.

One death upon millions was nothing the world cared for, much less gave a passing glance. The death of Jason Todd was hardly any different in many ways.

Bruce Wayne, the boy's adoptive father, mourned publicly, as did the first son, Dick Grayson. Emotionally, family never moved on, but publicly, it was necessary.

Within a few weeks, the Joker was delivered to Arkham, beaten nearly to death and hysterical despite it. Laughing about finally _breaking the bat_ like it was a game, and Robin wasn't allowed to play. Not for long, anyway.

News such as that never made it far out of the city, but there were some who kept tabs on it anyway.

John Winchester lost his son long ago, and relinquished any claim he had once he realized his own dire mistake. He had allowed a vengeful witch to get the drop on him, and his slip up lead to nothing but grief and pain. He wasn't strong enough to take responsibility, and if he had just…

If he'd taken Dean home when he found him, none of this would have happened. The damage wouldn't have been done.

It was all his fault, and he would never forgive himself for it.

And when Bobby found out, though, all hell broke loose.

Punches were thrown, and so were some unsavory words. The old man had seen those two boys like family, and when John had come back _without_ Dean, it wedged a rift that they both knew would never be repaired. The man had his chance, and he threw it away.

That fight ended with Bobby chasing the man off his property with a loaded shotgun, only holding himself back because Sam had lost enough already.

John could live with the guilt, the elder hunter decided, or maybe he couldn't. Either way, Bobby wouldn't be the one to make that decision, and rob that poor kid of what little he had left.

And _Sam_. He was young enough when it happened that he didn't fully understand it. For a long time, he only knew that Dean lived with a safe family, and was happy. Dad would give that to him too, if he could, but there were dangerous things that made it impossible. There was a demon on their tail, and of what little they knew, it had its eyes on Sam in particular.

As he got older, his understanding grew with him. Dean only escaped that life because John let him slip through the cracks. On one hand, he knew that his father couldn't help what the witch had done, and letting Dean stay with a happy family was probably best. But on the other…

His brother was still _dead._

There was no fixing it.

And years would pass and only a few people would care.

* * *

* * *

They didn't care.  
.  
.  
.  
.

That was their first mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to end the first installment of this series with chapter five. The next installment will be titled 'Beyond', so keep an eye out for it! I can't say that my inspiration for this is the strongest at the moment, but I certainly know where this is going, and hopefully the story will pick up with the next part. Feedback is welcome, keysmashing is too!
> 
> Happy reading, folks!


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